Silent Souls (Within Forgotten Halls)
by Sarcasministic
Summary: "And then Jack blinked with the image of a heartbroken man burned into his eyelids. The room was clear when his irises resurfaced, nothing but a blank wooden slate and pale yellow walls." [ONE-SHOT]
**_Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians_**

 ** _~Wherein the Narrator is Fading Away~_**

The offer had been accepted. Jack would make his mark at the Pole; at his home.

North had been thrilled, laughing and clasping the winter spirit around his shoulders, who in turn gasped for breath from the hugs and lifts into the air. And since the man couldn't shut up about it, the Guardians celebrated Jack's "homecoming".

Bunny had been extremely happy (this caught Jack off guard), smiling profoundly throughout the whole night. Jack would say he was high on chocolate, as would Tooth, but the truth was that Bunny was relieved; he'd seen the way the boy had lived for the past three centuries, and it brought tears to his eyes whenever he thought about it. He and the other Guardians had offered Jack places at their homes (Sandy was declined immediately because, well…), not really caring who he accepted, as long as he accepted _someone_.

The Warren and Tooth Palace were secondary choices, places where he could stop by if the Pole was too far away. Jack was thrilled at the thought of it all, but quiet nonetheless.

Aster and the winter child chose a room by the one, lone tree that sat outside. There was a balcony and a wall of windows, but, well… the room was purple.

Jack blanched at the color, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head. Bunny chuckled, bringing out blue and white paint. He was quite surprised when Jack, again, shook his head. The boy promptly walked out of the room and, five minutes later, came back with an array of whites, greys, blacks, browns, and a small can of grey-blue. He had two smocks and a single latter. He opened and taped the windows after covering the ground with plastic. The door to the balcony was open.

"First," he said, throwing Bunny a smock, "we're gonna paint these two walls," he pointed to the back and left, "a base coat of white, and then we'll do the right wall."

Bunny followed his orders, curious as to what Jack planned to do with the right wall. He glanced at the array of cans that littered the ground next to the wall, trying to figure it out.

Once they were done, North came in. His brow perked up in surprise and suspicion, turning to Bunny and asking:

"Did you chose color?"

"Nah, mate, all Jack."

And then Father Christmas left, chuckling.

Jack rummaged around in his hood, pulling out a picture and handing it to Bunny. "Jamie took this picture a few days ago, about a mile from my lake…."

Aster stared at it, shock adorning his features. It was the forest, snowing and birch trees and all, but in the center of it all, no more than a fuzzy blur, was the shape of a young girl, seemingly running into the forest, and Bunny could almost hear the laughter resonating off the photo. He turned to Jack.

"Jack—"

"I know," he whispered, not quite making eye contact. "But this is what I want to paint on the wall. Please?"

He ruffled the boy's hair. "Of course, kid."

And so later, when Bunny had left and Sandy was selling dreams and Tooth was collecting teeth, Jack fell asleep. North walked into the living room, keen on taking a blanket to his office, when he saw Jack cuddled up on the couch, fast asleep. He didn't snore, not at all, and his breaths came out so quietly and softly that he almost looked dead (this caused North to panic a bit). North chuckled quietly, taking in the moment, and picked Jack up, cradling him in his large, muscled arms, walking down the hall to his new room. And boy, was he in for a surprise.

Bunny and the boy had brought in the furniture all by themselves, claiming they didn't want to interrupt North's "work ethic". But now that the man walked into the room, he understood why they didn't wish to talk about the room.

It was absolutely beautiful, with the small lamp by the bedside and the calm blues and greys. The two were amazing painters; when North laid eyes upon the wall, he couldn't prevent the tears that came to his eyes.

The girl was fuzzy, but he could make out Pippa Overland any day. He could still remember the turn her letters took her last three Christmases.

 _"Please, bring him back. It's all I wish for, all I want. I'll do anything!"_

 _"Will you bring him back? It's so lonely here without Jack. I miss his pranks and laughter and…"_

 _"He's not coming back, is he?"_

He shuddered at the thought of that last letter. There'd been no more than six words, and those had been it, and it had been so eerie he could practically _feel_ the belief she held in him disappear from existence. He had read it over and over, feeling disappointment in himself because, in a way, he had caused Jack Overland's death. He had gotten Pippa the ice skates, he had granted her wish, because that was his _job_. But while North tried to defend himself, he couldn't quite destroy the emotion behind his wall, behind his ever-fading façade.

But when he laid Jack down on his soft, white bed, the tears ran loose and he smiled—he smiled because Jack had been given another life, a power beyond power, and North had been forgiven.

But North was not happy he had been so.

* * *

Jack was a curious boy. He was the entity of both a child and an adult, of power and innocence. And he was curious.

It was night and the bed did not seem as inviting as it was supposed to be. The image on the wall stared deep into his soul, as if the stories and memories that he hid there were mere dustings of frost upon his heart. And, he realized, she would not care for his secrets or aches and pains—not that past memory of her. Never her ghost.

Her distorted, blurred figure unnerved him. Jamie had been white as snow when he brought the photo to Jack, hand shaking and brown eyes wide. _"J-Jack, you should see this…."_

Jack didn't know how it happened, when it happened, or what Jamie was doing; the kid had never brought it up again. But the words and agony that this picture, now painted upon his wall, screamed out at him, haunted him—and her faceless features chilled him to his bones.

He didn't understand why he'd even painted it, why he'd gone up to Bunny and practically said, _"Paint a dead girl on my wall with me."_ He didn't know why, but faintly, in the very corners of his mind, he recognized that it wasn't the picture that haunted him, it was the stance of the girl in the photo, the way she was unseeing yet looking at the camera. The way her smile fractured his heart with a cold even he didn't understand.

And, I digress, Jack Frost could not sleep. Not tonight, not tomorrow—not until he understood her. But maybe that meant forgetting her, writing her off as some beautiful, lost girl amidst the ocean of the breathing. Maybe that meant pretending he and Bunny had never painted her fragmented figure. Maybe that meant acting like Pippa Overland had never existed.

Jack stood and walked out of the room, not once lingering inside, not once looking back or stroking the wood of the door. He embraced the dark hallways and they hugged him back, entwining with his beating heart and fluttering chest. He stared at the lined walls and dark wood, taking in the dimly lit yellow light bulbs that hung above him, moving and shifting beneath an invisible wind. He felt it rustle his hair and stroke his cheek and he knew it wasn't North, no, this was foreign—completely and utterly unknown.

The Pole seemed eerier, smaller, harsher, unloving at night. It seemed to wrap around every entity that resided in its corridors, clutching them in a sad, constricting emotion that littered the floor. Day was filled with wonder so intense it could bring your very heart to a stop. But the night—the night was filled not with dreamsand nor with nightmares, but with a cold so unimaginable that you had to remind yourself to breathe, to let the air whoosh in and out of your frozen lungs.

Jack's brows were furrowed in a serious curiosity that seemed to rove the entire hallway, the hallway that seemed endless and choked. His stance never once wavered, the feet seemingly glued to the ground, his capability sitting right in his hands, right where he need it, yet so far away. His steps never made a sound, never scratched the carpet or emitted a _squeak_ from the oaken floors. His sweater never once crunched together, his frosted patterns never grew. The staff glowed softly, blue just barely making the path in front of him visible.

Jack didn't often hear things—that had ended long, long ago, when he figured out the world was cruel and unforgiving, dark and cold; pitch black. That had ended when he had stumbled across Auschwitz in the winter of 1944, when a man of thirty-two walked through him, leaving his chest empty with nothing but the image of the starved human being. It left his legs weak and he could no long feel bad for himself, he could no longer complain and cry, because the man could no longer talk or scream. His inhuman form would remain forever burned into the very surface of his memories.

 _But Jack heard the singing, felt the dancing, tasted the wine, smelt the sweat and perfume, and saw the joy._

Jack's head was the first to turn and his body soon followed in suit, mouth slightly agape at the scene that met his eyes. He very nearly dropped his staff as he stared in shock.

He'd stumbled into and upon the room before. North had told him of its history, of the wondrous dances balls that had shared its floors. He'd told him of the beautiful women and handsome Russian men that danced wildly drunk and happy. He'd told Jack of blonde, brown, black, grey hair and pale skin and of the exotic, dark dancers that teased the drunkards and smiled down upon the women. He'd told Jack of purple, red, sparkling raven ball gowns and tidy brown, black, red suits that wowed the crowds. He'd told him of a mysterious, pale women with hair the color of fire and a dress such a black that the moon shone off the satin and the stars sparkled in her jade-green eyes.

Jack looked around at the spirits, the dead that danced and drunk around him. He weaved between the extravagant gowns and shining tuxes, careful not to lay a finger to the dead that surrounded him. He knew that it wouldn't make a difference, he knew they would probably keep on in their loop of eternity, but they emitted a chill that entranced him in a dangerous way—like he would get stuck with their dances and never be able to stop.

He walked around, gazing at the faces of both men and woman. He saw beautiful blonde hair and small, angular faces and bright blue eyes. He saw the brunettes that teased the ravens, leading them astray and breaking their hearts. He glanced at the men in glazed dazes, he saw the men with evil glints, and he saw the men with warming souls and comforting smiles. He saw the danger that no one noticed, the cold that swept through their locks, the darkness that crouched beneath the chairs.

He heard the glasses clinking, shattering upon the floor, crushing under fists and pressure. He smelt the chocolate and fondue and whiskey. He touched the floor, the cold, unforgiving floor that held him to reality and them to fiction. He kept walking, faster and faster as the music picked up, the wonderful violins and violas and cellos and bases that seemed to excite the crowd, causing the women to caw and the men to growl. He ran, finally, until he was in a lone, empty corner that glowed with the quiet of the world around the supernatural.

Next to him standing so stock-still was a tall woman. Her bodice was tight and elegant, free of crystals and diamonds. Her skirt held ruffles black as night made of the same satin and again held no jewels. Her hair was held up in a bun with curls streaming out wildly, glinting off the stars and blinding him. Her face was small, nose even more so, eyebrows thin and lips so fair and scared that they seemed to take up her entire face. Her eyes were large and pleading as she held her arms, held them as her neck began to bleed, as her black, soulful eyes stared at him, as her dress ripped and tattered fell to the floor and burned. He watched in mute horror as her arms charred and feel to the ground as ash, as crimson covered her dress and stained her porcelain skin pink, as the ghost became human and the spirit seemed to fall out of her, leaving the raw memory of _muteness_ and _quiet_ and _everlasting silence._ She screamed and while no one heard her before, Jack heard her clear as day.

It was a long, drawn out sound that pierced his very conscious, his very core. It wrapped around him, encasing his body in such a shrill, impossible completeness that his very bones shuddered and rattled his skin. He could feel the goosebumps beneath his sweatshirt and the rough padding of his pants. His feet were cold, _cold_ , and it was so unnerving that he had to look around at the corpses that now littered the floor.

Women were either dead or dying, dragging themselves into the clutch of their husbands and friends. Jack's eyes caught a single, pale man. He lay upon the fractured floor, knees bent at odd angles and side nearly blown off. But his deep blue eyes had latched on a single, lonely girl. His brown hair wasn't curly like the others, it was straight and long, matted against his forehead, complementing the beard that laid on the edges of his face and the mustache that curled up just slightly.

He cradled a young girl in his lap. Her startling green eyes stared up at him from the dark skin that cocooned her. Her black hair was long and straight and glistened in the moonlight, and her hands held the gaping hole in her stomach. She looked up at the man with a smile so happy, so filled with relief that Jack had to take a moment to look back down and see the blood pooling from her abdomen. He then turned his head at the man who whispered, hoarse and true:

 _"Dear, was your wish fulfilled?"_

 _"Oh, that and beyond."_

And then Jack blinked with the image of a heartbroken man burned into his eyelids. The room was clear when his irises resurfaced, nothing but a blank wooden slate and pale yellow walls.

Jack ran to North's room, the blue orbs still staining his own, and burst through the door. He lay upon his chair, jacket draped over his body and head bowed against his chest. Surprisingly gentle snores filtered through the room as Jack picked up a nearby blanket and wrapped it around the large Russian man.

Jack returned back to his room, never once glancing at the wall. He laid in his bed, forgo the clock that read 3:47 a.m., and shut his eyes.

* * *

North didn't understand where the blanket had come from, but forgot about that quickly.

He walked quietly into the room, only to find a fine layer of frost decorating the floor. It swirled in impossible directions, outlining the horror only he should have remembered, only he should have seen.

To his left was a woman made completely from ice, curls flowing free and framing her small face. Large blackened eyes stared at him, skin as pale as the ghost she was. Blood flowed from her.

"Anastasia."

Her eyes were cold, unforgiving.

 _"No more, Nicolaus. No more after this."_


End file.
